


run away, runaway

by doctorkaitlyn



Series: tumblr fics & ficlets, part ii. [60]
Category: Buzzfeed: Worth It (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Background Adam Bianchi/Annie Jeong, M/M, Tumblr Prompt, Unhappy Ending, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 16:22:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17707625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: Would it really be so bad if he simply confessed everything? If he finally told Andrew everything that’s been filling his mind, to some degree or another, for the past few years? He could finally sayI love you. I’ve loved you for so long. He could finally say,I think we could make a life together, oryou make me feel safe, oryou make me want to stay.Or maybe he could simply look up from the table, catch Andrew’s unwavering eye, and finally kiss him, the way he’s dreamed about for literal years.Would that be so bad?The answer, of course, is yes.





	run away, runaway

**Author's Note:**

> four months to the day after I last posted a fic, I'm back!
> 
> this was written for the prompt, _"standrew + sasha sloan - runaway (angsty af) ┰ω┰_ ". the song can be found [here! ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t8YHNDhUuQE)
> 
> this is definitely angstier than I'm used to writing, and I'm a little bit rusty at this, but I hope y'all enjoy!

The Uber that picks Steven up at six o’clock in the morning smells like fresh leather and pine air freshener, like it rolled off the lot of a dealership only a few minutes ago. The inside is completely lacking in personality and customization. There are no trinkets on the dashboard, nothing dangling from the rear view mirror, nothing but NPR piping from the speakers. 

Frankly, it’s almost strangely appropriate - a brand new car come to ferry him away to a brand new life.

The driver briefly greets him before pulling away from the curb and lapsing into silence, and Steven doesn’t try to pursue a conversation. For starters, it’s too early, and he’s too damn tired; he’d gotten maybe an hour of solid, decent sleep last night, even though he turned in around midnight. Most of his time in bed had been spent tossing and turning on his narrow couch, trying to find a spot that would send him off to sleep despite the racing of his mind and the way it had been desperately replaying every minute of the night’s events.

As the driver turns onto another street, one of a handful that will eventually lead to the interstate and then LAX and then New York City, the night starts unfurling again in the confines of his mind. He doesn’t bother trying to shove the recollection away, doesn’t try to distract himself with staring out the window at the passing scenery; it’s probably better that he get the replay over with now, so that he can get some sleep on the airplane and try to prepare himself for the hectic days and weeks to come.

So he closes his eyes, leans his head back against the firm leather of the seat, and lets last night (and the events that led up to it) wash over him in a wave composed of nothing less than pure and utter regret.

\---

It’s Adam’s idea to have a farewell dinner.

He brings it up at lunchtime, a week before Steven’s official last day in the LA office, while they’re sitting at one of the picnic tables outside, sheltered from the sun by a massive umbrella and gorging themselves on food truck tacos. He says it so seriously that, for a moment, Steven can’t help but wonder if Adam has somehow misunderstood, that he’s gotten the impression that this is a permanent goodbye.

“You know I’ll be back here like, once a month, right?” he asks, wiping guacamole away from the corner of his mouth. “Probably more than that, actually.”

“I know,” Adam answers with a slight shrug of his shoulders and a fraction of a smile. “But still.”

“I think it’s a great idea,” Andrew chimes in from Steven’s side. Despite the fact that each side of the table could easily fit three people (or four if they squeezed together), Andrew is pressed against his side, elbow to elbow and thigh to thigh, like they’re filming an episode of Worth It, warming Steven even more thoroughly than the sun. “Who knows when we’ll be able to hang out again? We’ll probably be too busy working on the show whenever you come back.”

“I’ll make time,” Steven replies, feeling a frown tugging at his mouth. The three of them had discussed the logistics of his move, how it would affect the show, in fair detail when he’d initially told them about it, but he can’t help but feel that he’s missing something here, that he’s maybe overestimated how well they took the news. However, going down that path seems like it could be a tangent that could drag them all down in the dumps, so instead, he plasters a smile onto his face and leans across the table to steal a piece of chicken that has fallen out of Adam’s taco. “But sure, we can do dinner. Where do you want to go?”

“You should pick,” Adam says, carefully pulling his taco back so that it’s out of Steven’s reach. “You pick, and we can make the rest of the arrangements.”

Even though it’s really not that big of a decision (especially when compared to the decision that precipitated it, the decision to move across the country on what is really a hunch and a feeling), it distracts Steven’s mind for the rest of the day. Every time he opens a tab on his laptop, intent on researching something or checking his email, he somehow finds himself looking up restaurants both new and old, places they’ve visited over the course of Worth It and places he’s had on his _must try_ list for months. No matter how hard he tries to concentrate, it keeps happening, over and over again, and finally, when five o’clock comes around, he throws in the towel and dedicates himself fully to the task.

After half an hour purely devoted to research, he makes a decision.

He’s just grabbed his phone to text Adam and Andrew when the latter comes up the stairs from the lobby, burying a yawn into the crook of his elbow. His shirt is dotted with dark stains and dustings of flour, and his hair is a strange mixture of flattened and spiky. Per the usual, Steven’s heart skips a beat at the sight of him and, also per the usual, he forces himself to ignore that particular skip so that he can speak without fumbling every word from his mouth.

“Think Adam would be down with Le Petit Paris for dinner?”

“For next week?” A small smile forms on Andrew’s mouth as he drops down into his seat at the desk beside Steven’s. “Yeah, definitely. Good pick.”

It’s such a casual phrase, really means nothing in the grand scheme of things (frankly, Steven is pretty sure that he could pick most any restaurant in the city, and Andrew would think it was a good pick), but warmth still flickers in his cheeks and chest all the same.

“Thanks,” he replies, busying himself with packing up his laptop so that he doesn’t have to focus on trying to pull his gaze away from Andrew’s smiling face. “See you tomorrow?”

“Bright and early. Night, Steven.” 

There’s always been something different about the way Andrew says his name, something that makes it so much more than an absent minded way to end a sentence. It’s almost feels _considerate_ , somehow, coming from Andrew’s mouth, and Steven has to swallow heavily before he answers.

“Yeah. Night, Andrew.”

&.

The week seems to pass in the blink of an eye.

Every available moment is filled with something to do. When he isn’t at work, he’s at home, figuring out which of his possessions should go into storage for the time being and boxing up the rest, or he’s out with his friends or people from the office, soaking up every last bit of California sun, because he doesn’t know when he’ll be returning for more.

By the time Thursday morning comes around, his apartment looks like he’s just moved in. The only article of furniture still in one piece is the couch, which he’s been sleeping on for a few days. He spends the first half of the day keeping track of everything as movers load the carefully packed cardboard boxes and furniture into a truck, ready to take it across the country. When they drive away, his apartment is so empty that every sound he makes, every footstep and hum, echoes back at him.

Even though there’s probably some more cleaning he could do, the echoing starts to get at him, and he heads into work shortly after lunch, aiming to have a productive afternoon, to wrap up some stuff that will be easier to handle in person than from a few thousand miles away.

Instead, he spends the afternoon saying goodbye to what feels like seemingly everyone in the LA office. He picks up stakes a few times, moves to a different part of the compound so he can maybe have a better chance of focusing, but each time is to no avail. Someone, whether it be Jen or Kelsey or Garrett or Alix, always finds him.

At four thirty, he gives up. He isn’t going to get anything done, not now, and besides, their dinner reservations are in an hour; even if he _did_ manage to buckle down and focus, he’d get torn away again just as he was starting to hit a groove. So instead, he heads back upstairs to his desk to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything, to make sure he hasn’t left behind a mess for whoever will be taking his place.

He hasn’t. It could use a quick wipe down, but other than that, he’s already managed to remove all traces from it. The little trinkets that have accumulated on it over the years are gone, removed one at a time over the past few weeks. The drawer underneath it is empty of any personal effects; there are a few pens and other supplies rolling around, but he decides to leave them there as a kind of housewarming gift for his replacement.

Compared to Andrew’s desk on his left, with its box full of plushies and the photographs carefully peeking out of books, it looks downright _sterile_. At the sight of it, Steven’s chest grows momentarily tight, and he forces himself to tear his eyes away.

He’s not going to let this be a problem. He’s spent years carefully keeping his emotions at bay, keeping his feelings for Andrew tucked away the best he can. On the few occasions that they’ve escaped, he’s always been able to come up with a reasonable excuse, always been able to explain them away as a bit for an episode or the result of one glass of wine too many.

As much as it aches to swallow them down now, he’ll be damned if he’s going to let them slip out on today of all days.

Leaving his desk behind, he heads across the compound until he reaches the studio where Eating Your Feed is filming. He can hear laughter leaking out through the door, and part of him wants to slip inside, wants to watch his friends having fun, wants to watch _Andrew_ having fun. Part of him wants to simply memorize the smile that’s no doubt gracing Andrew’s face, wants to keep it close to his chest so that he’ll have it on the long nights between now and the next time he comes into town.

But, as nice of a memento that would be, it would also _hurt_ , having that smile living in his mind but not being able to access the real thing, and while Steven may be many things, he’s not that much of a masochist.

So instead, he leans back against the wall opposite the studio and distracts himself with his phone while he waits for filming to finish up. Thankfully, he only has to wait about twenty minutes before the door opens, and Niki and Rie come out. He says yet another round of goodbyes to them, and they’re just heading down the corridor when Adam, Annie and Andrew come out as well.

“Ready for dinner?” Adam asks.

“Whenever you are. Do you guys wanna change first?” Adam and Annie shake their heads, but Andrew nods emphatically.

“Yeah, please. That room is way too hot.”

“That room is the perfect temperature,” Annie responds, deadpan. “You just sweat more than any human being should.” 

Andrew shrugs. “You’re not wrong. Meet you guys out in the parking lot.”

Adam is the only one of them who drove in today (Steven sold his car last week, and Andrew’s is in the shop), so they wait by his car, leaning against the hood and talking about how the shoot had gone. The evening looks like it’s going to be a beautiful one; the sun has begun to slip towards the horizon, still providing illumination but with less of the heavy heat that’s been sitting low over the city for the last few weeks, and there’s not a cloud in the sky, no sign of any rain that might put a wash on the evening.

Really, he couldn’t have asked for a better last night.

But that’s _before_ Andrew comes out of the building.

At the sight of him, the words Steven was planning on saying to Adam and Annie die in his throat. Andrew's plain white t-shirt is gone, replaced with a black button-up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the cords of his forearms and the watch strapped around his wrist. It looks like he ran water through his hair as well; it’s slicked over to one side, flyaways tamped down for the time being, although Steven wouldn't be surprised if they reappeared soon.

Simply put, even though there’s nothing particularly new or unique about the outfit, nothing out of the ordinary, Andrew looks amazing, and Steven suddenly feels like this is a horrible idea. He feels like he should come up with an excuse, _any_ excuse, to get out of dinner, because this is going to be painful. This is going to hurt more than he’s prepared to deal with.

But it’s too late to back out. Andrew has already reached the car, and Adam has dug his keys from the depths of his pocket. If Steven were to flee now, he’d be hurting his friends, and he wants that like he wants a hole in the head.

So, with his heart heavy in his chest, he slides into the back beside Andrew, tries not to catch the scent of Andrew’s cologne (and fails), and attempts to portion off the part of his brain that has a thing for Andrew, that has had a thing for him pretty well from the first day they met.

&.

Remarkably, he manages to keep himself under control for almost the entirety of dinner.

They keep the conversation light, turned away from the real reason they’re there. They talk about work and movies and the amazing food in front of them, about Andrew’s new cat and Adam and Annie’s new apartment, but they do not talk about the move.

Nor do they talk about the fact that there’s _something_ between Andrew and Steven, something hovering between them like an unseen fifth person, something that has Steven’s nerves pulled taut. 

The tables at the restaurant are not unreasonably small, but somehow, Steven finds himself repeatedly brushing against Andrew. When they move to grab a piece of cutlery or their respective glasses of wine, their arms touch, and it feels like fire singing Steven’s skin. Even when they’re eating, Andrew’s knee keeps bumping against Steven’s.

But even more so than that, Steven can feel Andrew _staring_ at him, almost from the very moment they sit down. Andrew’s gaze has always heavy, borderline overbearing, but Steven thought that he’d become accustomed to it, that he’d become adept at shaking the weight of it off like it was no more than a feather.

Apparently not.

It has to be obvious to Adam and Annie, but neither of them say a word or draw any attention to it. What they _do_ do, however, is conveniently excuse themselves to the washroom once they’re finished up with their meals, leaving Steven with no way out and nothing to focus on.

Nothing but Andrew. 

He knows that something is going to happen; it _has_ to. Something has to happen, something has to pop the tension that’s coiling tight around his chest like a predatory snake, threatening to take every inch of breath he has. If something doesn’t happen, he’ll suffocate.

“I can’t believe it’s tomorrow,” Andrew says quietly. His knee is pressed against Steven’s again. Steven is looking at Andrew’s scraped clean plate, but in his peripheral vision, he can see Andrew tilting his head to look at him. He can feel Andrew’s gaze on him. “I thought...” Andrew pauses for a moment, and his fingers momentarily twitch on the clean white linen of the tablecloth. “I don’t know. I thought we were gonna have more time, you know?”

“Andrew...” Steven doesn’t intend on letting the word leave his mouth, but it exits all the same, hangs heavily in the air between them, as visible as a gaudy ornament on a Christmas tree. Now that it’s out in the open, he can feel himself tiptoeing towards the road he promised himself he wouldn’t go down, for both of their sakes.

But then again, would it really be so bad? Would it really be so bad if, underneath the warm-toned lighting of the restaurant, surrounded by the peaceful murmur of other patrons and faint string music, he simply confessed everything? If he finally told Andrew everything that’s been filling his mind, to some degree or another, for the past few years?

He could finally say _I love you. I’ve loved you for so long_. He could finally say, _I think we could make a life together_ , or _you make me feel safe_ , or _you make me want to stay._

Or maybe he could simply look up from the table, catch Andrew’s unwavering eye, and finally kiss him, the way he’s dreamed about for literal years.

Would that be so bad?

The answer, of course, is yes. 

Even though the words ache to spill from his lips, even though he is fairly certain that his feelings would be reciprocated, throwing all of that on Andrew now, the night before he leaves, feels like a special kind of disrespect. It feels completely and utterly selfish.

It feels _cruel_.

If there’s one thing Andrew doesn’t deserve, it’s cruelty.

“Yes?” Andrew says. His fingers have moved to Steven’s side of the table, and they’re curled into the thick fabric of the tablecloth. There’s a hopeful note in his voice, something that almost makes Steven reconsider, makes him say _screw it_ and lean in anyways.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he mutters, “Never mind. I forget what I was going to say.” He flicks his eyes away from Andrew’s fingers and back to his own plate, where he spears a noodle and shoves it into his mouth.

Even though the sauce is exploding with flavor, decadent and creamy, he can barely taste it over the sour taste flooding through his mouth.

Adam and Annie return moments later, and after settling their bills, they step back out into the night. The evening has grown cool, and there’s a stiff breeze that makes a chill run down Steven’s spine, breaking through the uncomfortable warmth that’s been stifling him ever since his aborted confession.

“Want a lift home?” Adam asks once they’re outside. “Or to the airport tomorrow? I can come pick you up.”

Adam’s companionship would probably beat the hell out of an Uber driver, but Steven’s decision to shake his head is twofold: he doesn’t want to drag Adam out of bed that early, and he knows that if Adam comes, so will Andrew, and Steven isn’t sure he could deal with going through yet another goodbye.

If he has to do that, he thinks his willpower might finally snap.

“I’ll be fine,” he answers. “But I’ll let you all know when I land tomorrow, alright?”

“You better,” Annie responds, pulling him into a quick hug. Adam follows up, grabs him tight and thumps him on the back hard enough to make Steven cough with surprise. After he steps away, he glances over at Andrew.

“What about you, Drew? Want a lift home?”

“That’d be great, actually. Be there in a second.” While Adam and Annie drift over towards the car, Andrew comes to stand in front of Steven. There’s no escaping his eyes now, nowhere Steven can look that won’t make it painfully obvious that he’s avoiding eye contact. Steeling himself with a deep breath, he glances from Adam and Annie to Andrew.

The breath does almost nothing to prepare himself for the depth of emotion written in Andrew’s eyes, on his face. It’s not quite sadness; if anything, it might be closer to regret, tinged with a bit of weariness.

Steven is willing to bet that he’s probably wearing a similar expression. 

Without warning, Andrew pulls him into a tight hug, and Steven’s walls temporarily fall down. He fully melts against Andrew, wraps his arms around his neck and hauls him in close, until he can feel Andrew’s broad chest expanding against his own. This close, he can smell Andrew’s cologne, along with a hint of wine from dinner, and he knows that smell is going to transfer onto his own clothes, that it might very well be the first thing he smells when he wakes up in the morning.

“You can always talk to me, you know,” Andrew murmurs. The words brush warmly against the side of Steven’s neck. “Doesn’t matter what time it is. I’ll always answer, Steven.”

“I know.” The words have to traverse a lump in Steven’s throat in order to leave his mouth. “I’ll reach out if I need anything. I promise.”

“Good.”

They stay like that for a few more moments, fully wrapped around each other, Steven’s mind empty of any thought that doesn’t directly relate to how wonderful Andrew feels pressed up against him. Eventually, Andrew’s grip slackens, and Steven loosens his own arms in anticipation of stepping away.

Andrew steps back first, and as he moves away, he turns his head and brushes his lips against Steven’s temple.

It’s too gentle to be much of a kiss, but gentle or not, Steven feels it as viscerally as a punch to the jaw, and it’s all he can do to keep himself from reeling backwards, from simply dropping to the ground.

“Have a safe flight,” Andrew says, cheeks faintly tinged pink. “I’ll see you soon?”

Steven can’t speak. All he can do is nod, so overwhelmed with the urge to lurch forward and kiss Andrew that it physically hurts to restrain himself. With a slight smile, Andrew turns and walks over to Adam’s car.

It’s only after he clambers inside that Steven starts breathing again. As soon as he takes in a deep breath, warmth starts pricking at the corners of his eyes, and he refocuses all his energy on keeping that warmth from spilling over.

He’s successful up until the moment he gets through his front door.

From that point on, there’s no stopping it.

+++

He can’t see the terminals yet, but LAX is still looming before him, present in the freeway signs overhead and the sight of planes taking off, disappearing into the sky.

He glances down at where his phone is resting in his lap. It’s still too early for Andrew to be up, but Steven can’t help but play with the idea of texting him, of saying _something_.

But what would he say? Everything that he _wants_ to say is too long to be distilled down to a single text message, or even a string of them. He supposes that he could just say that he’s sorry, but that isn’t nearly enough. It’s not _good_ enough. Not good enough for Andrew, who deserves nothing less than the entire world and all the joy in it.

Maybe one day, he’ll tell Andrew. Maybe one day, the spires of New York will no longer feel like home, and he’ll come back for good to the smog and sun of LA. Maybe he’ll come back, ready to spill everything, ready and willing to tell Andrew absolutely everything.

But maybe, by that point, Andrew won’t want to hear those words. Maybe he’ll have found someone else. Maybe he’ll have simply moved on, the distance between them, despite Steven’s occasional jaunts home, having killed off whatever exists between them. Maybe the distance will have killed or, at the very least, quieted everything that Steven is feeling right now. 

With one last glance at the screen, Steven pockets his phone and sighs.

As painful as the thought may be, for the sake of both his own happiness and Andrew’s, he really, truly hopes that that ends up being the case.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
